


save_yours3lf_change_the_w0rld.txt

by roboskin



Category: Mr. Robot (TV)
Genre: Character Study, Coming of Age, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-03
Updated: 2018-02-03
Packaged: 2019-03-11 01:52:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13514283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roboskin/pseuds/roboskin
Summary: Tyrell and Elliot over the years.





	save_yours3lf_change_the_w0rld.txt

**Author's Note:**

> Following the post-season finale ritual I have been doing for two years now, this time with a backstory fic because I don't trust myself to make something good out of everything that is happening in the show right now. I'll leave that to Sam Esmail and his peers, and, you know, suffer in silence until next season comes out.
> 
> There's also a playlist [there](https://open.spotify.com/user/pefjb9ig8cyzq3vl1mtx6cswf/playlist/27SbjdB1JBFCadcDf0oup0?si=GU3Lbkv-S5uTegUGtOFq1g) if you like to listen to things while reading.

_**August 1988 – Rönnang, Västra Götalands Iän, Sweden** _

 

« _What is this called ?_ » Mamma asks in english.

Tyrell looks at what she's holding in her hand. She's taking off its skin with her fingers – it falls in purple ribbons on the wooden table. «  _A plum_ , » Tyrell says.

Mamma smiles. Her eyes look more blue when she does, and Tyrell feels warm, proud. « Very good, » she says, in swedish this time – _mycket bra_. « Now mamma would be very happy if you would eat it, sweetheart – I peeled it just for you. » Tyrell doesn't argue. He doesn't like a lot of fruits, but he likes plums, and he wouldn't want to make Mamma sad anyway. He bites in it. Juice drips over his chin, pieces of fruit come out of his mouth. Mamma laughs. « Hey, hey, not so fast, » she says, grabbing a paper towel on the counter between her, then bending over the table to wipe the juice off of his face.

That's the moment Pappa choses to come in, breaking the magic. Tyrell turns at him – he's got mud on his pants, and when he sees them, he raises his brows.

« What are you two doing ? » he asks. His voice is rough, like stepping on gravel barefoot – the opposite of Mamma.

Mamma steps back. « Teaching him some english, » she says. « Keep eating, sweetie. » Tyrell didn't realize he had stopped.

« I don't get why you keep doing that, » Pappa says as he steps into the kitchen. He turns on the tap. The water gets out clear and becomes brown when it goes past his hands – there's mud on them, too. « It's not like he's going to learn at such a young age. »

« It's quite the opposite, actually, » Mamma says. « It's the best period for a child to learn a language. It's much easier for a kid than it is for an adult. »

Pappa shrugs. He doesn't turn back - he's still washing his hands. « Well, it's not like it's going useful anyway, » he says. « I never learned english, » he says.

« And look at you, » Mamma says, leaning over the table, crossing her arms. « How successful you are. »

Pappa doesn't answer. Instead, he says : « I brought back some fish. It's in the car. I'll let you make dinner. »

He leaves the kitchen, going for the living room where he always is, when he isn't outside fishing or chopping wood or gardening. When they're alone, Mamma sighs, then looks at Tyrell, who's done eating his plum.

She smiles. « Good boy, » she says. She goes looking for something in one of the cupboard. When she turns back to Tyrell, she's holding something wrapped in golden and silver plastic. « Now this one is easy, » she says. «  _What is this called ?_ »

« _Chocolate_ , » Tyrell answers. It's easy, indeed – _chocolate, choklad_. It's almost the same.

«  _Good,_ » Mamma says. When she comes to give him the chocolate bar, she strokes his head, and her eyes are blue, blue, blue.

 

_**November 1991 – Washington Township, New Jersey, USA** _

 

It's Darlene's first birthday, and there are too many people in the dining room.

Elliot managed to find a way to escape without anyone noticing – it's easy, when everyone is gushing at his little sister. They're probably going to notice soon, because Mom is going to serve dessert – he can't really see what's the point of all this anyway. He doesn't recall any memory from when he was one year old, and from what he's seen, Darlene doesn't seem to care about whatever kind of cake they're going to feed her, or about the name of people she can't even pronounce the name of.

« Look who's here, » a voice says behind him. « I've been looking for you. »

Elliot turns to face his dad. Behind him, on the TV screen, Tom is still chasing Jerry.

« Enjoying cartoons on your own, huh ? » Dad says. « Keeping all the fun for yourself. Not very nice. » He sits next to Elliot, then. « Hey, I'm joking, » he says when Elliot says nothing. « Why did you leave ? »

Elliot's eyes are back on the TV screen. He shrugs. « I don't know anyone, » he simply says.

« How about the neighbour, Emma ? » Dad says. « She's about your age – six years old, I think ? »

« I don't like her, » Elliot says.

Dad huffs a laugh. « Well, that's something else, » he says. « I can't go against that, can I ? »

Elliot doesn't answer.

« We have to go back, » Dad says. « We're having chocolate chip cake. You love it. »

Elliot does love it. He doesn't want to go back. He wants to stay like that forever – his dad with him and cushions on the floor, he wants to make blanket forts and eat M&Ms watching cartoons. There would be no one else in the dining room, no noise, no Mom, no rest of the world.

He ends up following his dad anyway, because he doesn't want to make him sad. The one good thing about a lot of people being there is that Mom smiles at him when he comes back and says « here you are, honey, » to Dad. She's putting on a mask – she would never do that if there wasn't anyone around, but at least, she's doing it now.

Elliot sits in front of Darlene. She doesn't seem to know where she is or why, but then, neither does he.

 

_**October 1993 – Rönnang, Västra Götalands Iän, Sweden** _

 

Last holiday, Tyrell's mom took him on a daytrip to Göteborg, because she wanted him to see the town she grew up in. Tyrell had stared at everything he'd seen with stars in his eyes – big buildings, bright city lights, fancy looking shops and restaurants – thinking very hard _here, I want to live here_. His mom must have heard his thought, because at some point of the day, after buying him a chocolate chip icecream, she had said : « You know, sweetheart, you won't have to stay in Rönnang forever. » She had said : « When you're older, you can do whatever you want ». Tyrell had thought about the way she had stopped before the fancy shops, looking at dresses, earrings that had gems on them and silver necklaces, about the way she had told him about her years in highschool here, how magic it was, living in a big city as a teenager. How could she have lived here before, and be stuck in Rönnang now ? How can this happen ?

Before that, Tyrell had never noticed how little effort his father would make to make Mom happy. Not that _he_ was rich – not that he could buy her these dresses and these earrings and these necklaces. Tyrell had wondered why his mom had moved to Rönnang instead of his dad moving to Göteborg, because who the hell would want to stay in Rönnang, but then it had occured to him that actually, from this man, it wasn't surprising at all. Günther Strömberg, the fisherman, who had lived all his life here, who had never even left Sweden, who had read the same two books repeatedly for years, whose one and only idea of having a pleasant time was to go to the pub with the three same people every thursday and saturday night, would not want to leave Rönnang. Of course he wouldn't – he wouldn't leave if his life depended on it.

But Tyrell isn't like that, oh, no – Tyrell, he will leave this damned town as soon as he can. He will take Mom with him and leave, in Göteborg or somewhere else – somewhere nice, in a place that doesn't smell like dead fish. He'll die if he stays here.

One day, at school, Carl comes from nowhere during break and tells Tyrell to meet him after class. He doesn't say why, even when Tyrell asks.

Later during the break, he finds out Viggo and Henrik have been told the same instructions. They spend the minutes they have left speculating about what it could be while Carl has apparently vanished, and when they have to go back to class, Tyrell sits besides him, eyes full of questions, but Carl says nothing. Tyrell leaves it, because the teacher has started talking, but he still spends the whole afternoon wondering.

« So, what is it ? » Viggo asks later, when they all leave school together. He sounds pissed – not because Carl's leading them somewhere they don't know, but because he's doing his thing again.

« I can't tell you there, » Carl mutters.

 _This_ thing. This exact thing where Carl asks like he's holding the biggest secret in the whole world when it's, more often than not, just girly stuff that he's found in his sister's room. « Don't try to be all mysterious and all, » Viggo sighs. « It doesn't make you look cool. It just makes you look stupid. » Carl doesn't answer to that.

Quickly, they figure that he's taking them to his house. When they get there, Carl still hasn't said anything – still isn't. He calls for his parents, but nobody answers. Then he climbs up the stairs, very fast, leaving Tyrell and the others glancing at each other in incomprenehson, and gets down again. When they're all done taking off their shoes and their coats, Carl takes them to the living room and tells them to sit on the sofa. Nobody asks him what's going on anymore – they're all waiting.

But Carl doesn't speak. He just opens his backpack on the floor before them, and gets a VHS out of it. The cover is a badly printed version of the _Ghostbusters_ poster – it's yellowed and tattered.

« Alright, you've got an illegal copy of _Ghostbusters,_ » Henrik says, raising an eyebrow. « So what ? »

Carl raises a hand, slips a finger between the cover and the plastic covering it, and slowly, pulls the damaged paper down. What appears underneath, in the order, is : a bright pink background, some strands of pale blond hair, heavily painted eyes, red lips, naked skin, a huge pair of boobs, naked, too, and then, something being inserted in –

Tyrell's eyes widen. He doesn't speak.

Viggo, however, does, and he shouts:

« YOU'VE FOUND A _PORN TAPE_? »

Carl's hand is on Viggo's mouth as soon as the last word escaped. He's got a finger on his own lips.

« Shut the fuck up ! » He says, whispering and yelling at the same tipe, as odd as it is. « You want the whole neighbourhood to know ?! »

Tyrell is still staring at the now not-so-secret tape, hypnotized. He's seen this kind of picture before, because they sell magazines at the newsstand his mom buys her cigarettes at, and she's never caught him staring. He's always wondered if adults really did these things between them, and how it was, and if he could learn out of these magazines.

« Where did you find it ? » Viggo says, whispering too, this time. There's no need to, the house is empty – but implicitly, they're all agreeing there : the walls have ears, and they can't risk this secret leaving their little circle.

« In my brother's bed, » Carl says.

« What were you doing in your brother's bed ? » Henrik asks.

« Let me finish, » Carl says. « My mom asked me to collect the sheets in the house for laundry. He wasn't there yesterday night, so she told me I could go in his room. And like, when I lifted the covers to take the sheets off, this fell on the floor. »

« Hey, Tyrell, what does it mean ? » Henrik asks, pointing at the title.

Tyrell hadn't even noticed there was a title. « _Snow White and the seven big boys,_ » he translates. He's the only one of his friends to speak english. He never imagined it could come handy in a situation like this.

« She doesn't look like Snow White at all, » Viggo slays flatly.

They all stare at the tape for a while, saying nothing. Snow White's green eyes, covered in black and purple, lashes longer than it's usually possible. Snow White's plump lips – red, glossy, parted. Snow White's massive breasts, naked and round, bigger than Tyrell has seen on any woman.

« So, » Henrik says at some point. « Are we gonna watch it or what ? »

In the end, they do. Carl puts the sound very low, because he's too afraid he won't hear his parents' car if they're early otherwise, and when they all ask Tyrell what's being said, he can't answer, both because he doesn't hear half what's being said and because he doesn't undersand half wha he can hear.

« So this is what sex looks like ? » Viggo whispers when one of the _seven big boys_ bends Snow White over a table.

« This isn't even what a _woman_ looks like, » Tyrell says.

Snow White's breasts crash on the table. She screams, moans, whines – even with the sound on one percent, they can hear that. « Uh uh, false, » Carl says. « One of my mom's friends, she looks exactly like that. »

« With the boobs and all ? » Henrik asks.

« With the boobs and all, » Carl says.

«Damn, » Henrik says.

Tyrell learns a new english word, as the seven big boys keep talking about their _cocks._ He then learns about _dick_ , which is basically the same thing. Something he won't tell his mom, surely. On the TV, one of the boys is pushing his _dick_ into Snow White, another is pushing his _cock_ into her mouth. Tyrell can't tell if the fact that she's making so much noise makes the sex good or not. Are girls supposed to scream that much?

After a while, he gets up. « I'm going to take a piss, » he says.

«Okay, » Carl says. « Oh, actually, you'll have to get to the first floor, » he says. « The flush downstairs is broken. Just climb up the stairs and go to the right – it'll be the second door. »

« Alright, » Tyrell says as he goes.

The bathroom at Carl's place is very different from what they have a Tyrell's house. Where Tyrell is used to see bad weak light and yellow tiles and this old mirror that his father claims it was his mother's, here, the lights are bright and white, the tiles are white, too, and the mirror is a big, round, modern thing.

When he flushes the toilet, Tyrell sees something shining on the sink. It's only when he approaches that he sees what it is – a bracelet and a pair of earrings, both silver with some translucid gems hanging, obviously meant to be worn together. The gems are probably not like the really precious ones, the ones that his mother was looking at in the shops, because he knows Carl's parents are richer than his, but they're not _that_ rich. But it's pretty, delicate, sophisticated – just like his mother, just like what she likes to wear. And for a second, it crosses his mind, how easy it would be to just take the jewels in his pocket. The next second, he realizes that no, it's too obvious – they're there, disposed at everyone's sight on the sink, as if it was a test, daring anyone to steal it and see the consequences.

Tyrell isn't stupid. He doesn't take them. What he does, however, is wash his hands, leave the bathroom, and check every door on this floor, not making any noise – thankfully, the floor here isn't like it is at his house, where the wood squeals everytime someone takes a step, where it's almost impossible making a move without everyone around knowing it. He quickly finds the room he's looking for, by elimination – if the floor doesn't squeal, the door does when he opens it, and for a moment, Tyrell stops breathing. He starts again a few second later, because there's no way anyone's heard him – he's one floor above, and Carl, Viggo and Henrik are too busy concentrating on Snow White's moaning anyway. He steps into Carl's parents' room, quiet as a mouse, tiptoeing just in case.

It takes him a few tries before finding what he's looking for. When he does, it's by opening a cupboard facing the big, big bed, and his eyes glow.

There isn't that much of a choice – Carl's mom seems to like precious things, but doesn't own that much, which is going to make things harder than they were supposed to be. He wonders who she is going to blame, when she will see one of her belongings has disappeared – with luck, she will just blame herself, thinking she's lost it, forgotten it at work maybe.

The item Tyrell choses is a necklace, thin and silver like the bracelet and the earrings, but with a bigger crystal hanging. Tyrell wonders if it's real silver, real crystal – his mom had told him about that when he'd commented on the fact that she, actually, had a lot of jewels. She had said : « I do, sweetheart, but these are fake. I could get as much as I want for a few bucks, but it's never like the real thing. » Tyrell takes the crystal in his hands. He has no idea how you're supposed to know if it's a real one or not. He's just going to hope really hard this one is. Not losing any more time, he puts the pendant in his pocket, closes the cupboard, leaves the room, and gets back downstairs.

Later this day, when he's back from Carl's but his dad is still out – at the bar with the other fishermen, probably, it's thursday night after all – Tyrell gives his mom the pendant.

« Where did you find that ? » she says, her look suspicious.

Tyrell, dumbly, hadn't thought about that – what he was going to say to her. Obviously not that he had stolen it, of course, but it hadn't occured to him that he had to find a proper justification for this. « I found it, » he says flatly. « In the park. Someone must have lost it there. » It's the worst lie ever, but his mother would have known even if he had come up with the best excuse ever. He's tried lying to her a few times – when he had eaten chocolate behind her back, when he had broken the vase on the table, when he had said that it was Lukas that had started the fight they had when they were eight – and it didn't work out that well. Suddenly, he starts to hope very hard that she won't ask him about what he did this afternoon, because he'd have to hide having watched a porn tapeto her, and she can't find out about that.

« You're lying, » she says, frowning. « Tell me the truth. »

Tyrell thinks about telling her _a_ truth, but not _the_ truth – finding out something else to say instead insisting that the first lie is true, so she'll think he's being honest. But no decent idea comes to his mind, and anyway, she'll _know._

So just like that, he says the truth. « I stole it from Carl's mom, » he says. « In her room. » A few seconds past, and neither of them says nothing, and Tyrell can't stand it. « It's just – you like pretty things, » he says to fill the silence. « Dad never buys you pretty things, and – I wanted to make you happy. » And it's true, it's the truest thing.

He lets the silence happen, this time – whatever he can say more won't mean anything anyway. He waits for her to go mad. She doesn't yell when she is angry, his mom – not at him, at least. He's heard her yelling at his father, because the walls are thin, but when she scolds him, she never does. She's a quiet storm, dry voice and cold eyes, and maybe that's even _worse_ than yelling.

But the scolding doesn't come. As he's looking down the floor, Tyrell feels a hand going through his hair, and this doesn't feel like _mad_ at all – this, usually, means _good boy_ , means _I'm proud of you_ , means _I love you_. And when he lifts his head up to look at her, she grins, then smiles, then laughs.

« You're not angry ? » Tyrell asks.

She crouches in front of him. They're face to face. Her blue eyes are sweet, and her hand, that she's moved to his shoulder now, is soft. « No, honey, I'm not mad, » she says. « This is very sweet of you, thank you. »

« I _stole_ something, » Tyrell says, not that he _wants_ to be grounded or anything, but it is usually how it goes, and it isn't now, and it's _weird_.

« Yes, you did, » his mom says. « But it was to please someone you love. There's nothing kinder than that, huh ? » She smiles again. « Plus, I never liked Birgit. She's a hypocritical, pretentious, jealous bitch. »

« Aren't you supposed to like, _not_ say _bitch_ in front of me ? » Tyrell asks.

She smiles wider. « Smartass, » she says, giving him a gentle tap on the head. « I'm probably not supposed to say that either. »

Tyrell smiles, too. « No, I think you aren't, » he says.

« So, » his mom says. « Are you going to help me put that on ? »

Tyrell nods. She turns around, placing the pendant around her neck. Tyrell causciously takes the ends and joins them together – the silver chain is cold against the skin of her nape.

« So you're not telling anyone ? » Tyrell asks, just to be sure.

« Are you kidding ? I love this necklace. » She gets up. « _It will be our little secret_ , » she says in english – and it's odd that a language that most people than not can speak has become their way to talk without being understood.

«  _Don't steal anymore,_ » she says after kissing him on the forehead. « It's a small town. If you start taking things from everywhere you go, people are going to start to know. And do you remember what you told me when we were in Göteborg ? »

«  _When I'll be rich,_  » he says in english, «  _I'll buy you a house here, and all the necklaces you want._  »

His mother smiles.

Later that night, when Tyrell's father comes back and kisses his wife, he says : « Where did you get this ? »

« Ah, you're more observant drunk than sober, apparently, » Tyrell's mom says – words he's not supposed to hear, from where he is, on the couch. Words that are whispered, and he has to get up and get closer without being seen so he can hear them better. « Last time I got a haircut, it took you one week to notice. »

« Don't change the subject, » his father says. There's beer and gravel in his voice. « Where did you get it ? You're having an affair ? »

« Oh, honey, I wish, » Tyrell's mom says, « but in case you hadn't noticed, I'm not really going anywhere all day, and it's not like there was a large choice in this town. » Tyrell's dad makes a face, not amused. « It's a gift from my sister, » his mom then says. « For my birthday. She gave it to me when I was in Göteborg with Tyrell – I hadn't had any occasion to put it on and forgot about it. I found it back when I was cleaning today and I thought that I didn't need any occasion, and that I could just wear it when I want to. » There's something in her voice that says _because there won't be any occasions, because I'm stuck there because of you, because it's not like a pathetic man like you could take his wife somewhere nice._ That's why she's a better liar than Tyrell – she pushes right where it hurts.

Tyrell's father doesn't find anything to say to that. « You look like a whore with that thing around your neck, » he says, and that's all he has, before going to bed. Tyrell's mom stays still for a moment, and when she turns her head, she sees Tyrell hiding behind the wall.

Then she smiles, puts a finger on her lips and says : «  _It will be our little secret_. »  
  


**May 1995 – Washington Township, New Jersey, USA  
**   


  
It's not like mom has ever been nice, in Elliot's eight years of existence. Elliot is not sure he's seen her make an act of kindness – not _real_ kindness. She can smile, sure – she can joke, she can even say nice things, sometimes. On good days, she calls Elliot a good boy, and Darlene her pretty girl – she takes them too school, drops them there, lights herself a cigarette for her walk back home. And then they come back from class by themselves, and she's herself again – no smile, no nice things, she's ugly and cold and thinking of something mean to say, looking for someting one of them has done wrong. Something that would justify a slap in the face, a _I'm doing all I can for you little shits and this is how you repay me_ , a _I never wanted either of you anyway_.

It's not like she's ever been nice, really – but before, there was dad, and dad was kind. It was him, actually, who told Elliot the difference between nice and kind – about how you can be nice, but not necessarly kind, about how kindness was in caring for someone, not only pretending you did. When Elliot had repeated this to his mother, proud like kids are when they know something smart and want to share it with an adult, she had said : « Bullshit. » She had said : « There's no damn difference. Neither of these things are gonna help you survive in this world. » Elliot was five, and he didn't know what _survive_ meant.

Elliot's dad, he was kind. It didn't keep mom from being mean – she was still herself in his presence, sometimes even worse, but at least, he would try to calm her down. Sometimes, he would come back from work and see on Elliot's face that something had gone wrong. Never once he had asked if Elliot had done something wrong, if maybe, just maybe, he had deserved what he got. He would tell Elliot that it wasn't his fault, that he was sorry, that he wished he could have been a better father. He would get down the stairs and talk to mom, even if he knew it wouldn't change anything, even if he knew that it would only turn talking into yelling. And Elliot would hear Darlene cry, at these times. He would get up and get to her room, try to calm her down, tell her it was gonna be ok, wishing very hard that it was true. Wishing that dad was going to realize how bad their mother was for all of them and leave, taking Darlene and Elliot away. They would live in a big house, the three of them – they would watch movies on evenings and go to zoos on week-ends, and when Elliot would get a good grade, he would get a smile and a _I'm proud of you, kiddo_ , instead of a cold glance and a _well that's the least you can do, having good grades, you better get them, now get in your room and do your homework_. Dad would make him chocolate chip cake to congratulate him, and they would eat it while learning Darlene new words.

They will never get to do that, of course. Edward Alderson died on February 28th after two months of his son not talking to him. Elliot doesn't remember how he died, doesn't remember being there. They said he was, though – they said his dad fainted in the middle of the movie theater hall. Elliot remembers before, remembers after, but he doesn't remember that. The therapist said that it was normal, that it was a way his subconscious had found to cope with the shock of losing his father – but then, Elliot never got to see that therapist again, because his mother never took him back here.

Edward Alderson died on February 28th after two months of his son not talking to him, and Elliot doesn't even remember it. He wishes he did – maybe it's better for him that he doesn't, but still, he wishes he knew. Most of all, he wishes he hadn't refused to talk to his father, wishes that he had enjoyed the last days with him instead of ruining them. Edward Alderson died on February 28th and he died alone – with a wife that couldn't bring herself to care, a daughter that was too young to understand and a son that blamed him for being sick. He fainted in the middle of the movie theater, and Elliot left. He stole his jacket and left. He only knows about the jacket because he was wearing it when he snapped back into reality, because it's still in the cupboard he shares with Darlene, under a pile of clothes so no one can see it. He doesn't know why he took it. He doesn't know why he left. But he left. Edward Alderson died on February 28th and Elliot left.

His dad would talk to his mom, when he was there. It would make Darlene and Elliot feel a little bit safer, even if it often – always – resulted in violent disputes late at night, because at least, with him home, they knew it wouldn't end with one of their cheeks stinging and one of their arms starting to bruise. When he was there, Dad would take them to the dog park, or to a shelter, just so they could pet some. Elliot loved dogs and Dad loved cats and Darlene loved both, but they couldn't have any because of their mother. Dad would hold Darlene close so she wouldn't do anything that would lead a dog to bite her – she was so small, smaller than this big labrador she had hugged for ten minutes straight. She would cry when she saw a pitbull, and Elliot would laugh at her, and it would be fine, but now their dad is gone, gone, gone, and Elliot left.

Elliot jumps when he hears a knock on his door. His body goes still, his breathing stops. He remembers last night with mom, remembers how _angry_ she was, how the cigarette burned his skin. His wrist still hurts - it’s gonna hurt for a few more days, weeks. The burns from three weeks ago haven’t disappeared - he wonders if they ever will.

« It's me, » he hears a small voice whisper behind the door.

It doesn’t make his muscles relax, but at least, he can start breathing again. « Come in, » he says.

The door opens, and Darlene appears. Smaller that Elliot recalls ever being, her hair floating around her face, wearing one of Elliot’s old pajamas that’s way too big for her, she’s got tears in her eyes.

« Hey, what's the matter? » Elliot asks.

« I tried to sleep, » she says. « But I couldn't, » she says.

Elliot doesn’t ask for more, because he knows. Last night, it all started because they were running in the house, playing together - Darlene fell, hurt her knee, started to cry. Mom yelled at her to keep it quiet, told her _come on, it’s nothing, stop whining_ , then saw Darlene had made a glass fall, collapse in pieces on the floor, and got _very_ angry. Elliot got the burns because he defended Darlene, told mom it was him. It wasn’t even about the glass - mom doesn’t care about the glass, the _damn glass_ , as she called it, as she calls everything. It was just an excuse because she was angry - she is angry all the time. At him, at Darlene, at the whole world, and Elliot doesn’t know what they’ve done to make her so mad, but she is, and his wrist _hurts_.

« Come here, » Elliot says.

Darlene jumps on the bed - he has to help her get on it, because she’s so small it’s a struggle.

« Can you braid my hair? » Darlene asks in her tiny, tiny voice. « I don't wanna ask mom. »

« Yeah, sure, » Elliot says. « Turn around. » Darlene’s hair is all over the place, like a big mane around her head – it's a mess in the morning if she doesn't sleep with braids. It’s already a mess, right now, but he doesn’t have it in him to get a hairbrush in the bathroom. He separates Darlene’s hair in two braids that are not even, but it’s ok, it’s for sleeping anyway, nobody cares what it looks like.

When he’s done, Darlene curls against him as they lay in his bed. She’s not crying, she’s silent – she, too, has learned how not to make any noise. Elliot puts the cover over them – the light barely gets through the fabric, but they can still see each other. Darlene can see him, she can feel him – maybe she can feel a little bit safe, maybe she can feel like when dad was there and taking care of them, even if it’s Elliot who takes care of her now, even if he’s not tall, not strong, even if he doesn’t know if he’ll ever be.

« You'll see, » Elliot says. « One day, it's gonna be ok. »

Darlene lifts her head. Her big, bright eyes almost glow in the dark. « How do you know? » She asks.

« I just know, » Elliot says. « It always gets better. Whether it's in five years, or ten, or twenty. » It’s something his dad once said to him, and he’s repeating it word by word.

« How long is twenty years? » Darlene asks.

« A lot, » Elliot says.

« Then I don't want to wait twenty years, » Darlene says.

« Alright, » Elliot says. He searches for Darlene’s hand in the dark. « Let's make a pact, ok? Hold out your pinky for me. » Darlene does. Elliot curls his finger around hers. « In twenty years, we'll both be happy, » he says. And because he’s angry, angry at his mother’s being the monster under their beds, angry that the disease that killed his dad and the ones that allowed him to catch it, he says: « In twenty years, we'll change the world. »

Darlene doesn’t know what it means, but being happy and things changing must still sound good to her ears. « Ok, » she says.

« Pinky promise, » Elliot says. They’ve been making these since Darlene’s learned to talk. It’s probably one of the first things she’s learned to say.

« Pinky promise, » Darlene says.

They hold their fingers for a while.

He doesn’t know for sure, because it’s dark, but maybe, just maybe, Darlene smiles.  
  


  
__**September 1995 – Rönnang, Västra Götalands Iän, Sweden  
**   


  
« I don't wanna do this, » Tyrell says.

It's already cold outside, but he's red and sweating, his muscles burning and his blood boiling. His hair is behind his eyes and it's wet – some strands are dripping.

His father is reading the newspapers, sitting on this wooden chair he takes out whenever he decides it's a good moment to _teach_ Tyrell to chop wood. He isn't teaching him anything, though. Not like he needs to – Tyrell has been doing that since he was nine. « Well, you're going to have to, » his father says, « if you want to be warm this winter. » He isn't looking at him.

His mom would look at him. She would give him one of her gentle glances, and in her blue, blue eyes, he would be safe.

His father, he is never looking at him.

Tyrell slams the axe hard on the trunk. It hits the wood so hard he feels his bones trembling. When he lifts his head to wipe the sweat off his face, his father's eyes are still on the papers. « Look at me, » Tyrell says, but he doesn't, so Tyrell says it again, but this time, he's shouting.

Finally, he gets something.

His father's eyes are nothing like his mom's, nothing like his. They're brown – not even a brown like Diana's, Carl's sister, who had eyes that looked like polished wood. It's Tyrell's mother who had said that, once, the only time she met her, when she came picking him up at Carl's place when he was younger. She had a way to phrase things, his mom – she once said she had wanted to become a writer, for a while.

But it isn't even the color that bothers him, in his father's eyes. He can't stand them because they're empty, because _he_ is empty, and _god_ , he should have been the one dying – Tyrell would die, if he was like him. He would starve himself to death and let his body decay – he couldn't stand being like that, so fucking pathetic.

« You don't talk to me like that, Tyrell Strömberg, » his father says, and his eyes land back on the papers.

« Don't call me by your name, » Tyrell spits. His face is red, his arms are aching, his hands are sore.

« Well, young boy, I'll have you knowing that it's your name too, » his father says, tone calm, detached. Tyrell's fist begs to punch his face, to make him lose this calm of his, to make him yell, to make him _look at him_.

« Bullshit, » he says instead. He doesn't have to force himself for his voice to sound dry. « It's too easy, » he says, and he's almost shouting again now. « You never talk to me, you've never fucking look at me – you come to me once or twice a year so we can _chop wood together_ like it's our nice little father and son thing, and then you sit there and do nothing – not even watching me doing, not even looking even just _once_ – » He's lost his breath, and he's not even trying to catch it back. « This isn't gonna make me believe I have a dad, » Tyrell says. « So don't pretend you are. »

And when his father puts the papers down, on his lap, it's not to look at Tyrell, no. Instead, he takes his cigarette pack out of his pocket and lights one. Tyrell is boiling, but he's waiting for an answer, waiting for anything he can snap back to.

«Fine, » he finally says, like it was nothing. « You're going through your adolescent crisis, it's not my problem. »

 _Yes, it is_ , Tyrell thinks. _You're supposed to be my father, it's supposed to be your problem – you're supposed to_ look at me _, instead of just letting things happen. Mom would look at me, mom would take care of this, and maybe she would be mad at me, maybe she would ground me, but at least she would be something –_ « That's why mom died, » he spits. « That's why – she couldn't stand you anymore, she couldn't live with you being so fucking – I don't even know how she could fall for you in the first place, whatever the hell you did to convince her it was a good idea to come live here with you. You ruined her life by taking her here, by offering her nothing but boredom. »

Smoke comes out of his father's mouth. He goes back to reading. « Your mother was sick, » he says. « She was before she moved here, and the illness would still have been there if she hadn't. »

« Well, it certainly didn't help, » Tyrell snaps back. « She had her friends there, her family, she had things that made her happy – here, she only had you – », _me, she only had me_ , « and you weren't even _there_ – you wouldn't even take her to the movies, you can't even have an interesting conversation with someone that's not about the daily fishing or the local hockey team, Christ, you don't even speak _english_ – »

For the first time, Tyrell's father interrupts him. «  _So much depends upon a red wheel barrow_ , » he says in english, the only english words he knows, «  _glazed with rainwater, besides the white chickens_. »

This is what makes Tyrell lose it. This is what pushes him to grab the axe, snatch it off the trunk and slam it next to the chair his father is sitting on with all the force that he can. This time, his arms don't ache, his hands aren't sore. This time, he's nothing but warm blood and spit and sweat.

And this time, his father _sees_ him. Muddy eyes widened, mouth hanging open, he's dropped both his cigarette and his newspaper.

« Shut the fuck up, » Tyrell says. « How dare you being so calm ? » And again, he's not breathing. « You killed her, » he says. « You should be crying, you shouldn't be able to live after that, » he says. « You should die, » he says.

When he turns around, leaving the axe planted like a tombstone besides his father, he says : « You should have killed yourself instead of her. »

He doesn't regret it. He doesn't at the moment, and he still doesn't, ten minutes later, as he's walking on the village's streets, he still doesn't, even after, when he reaches the graveyard with wildflowers in his hands because the flowershop is closed on sundays.

When he reaches his mother's grave, the sky is getting darker already. He's still only wearing a t-shirt that's soaked at the armpits. His arms bare and there's sweat drying on his skin. With the adrenaline gone, he starts to get cold when he stops walking. He bends over to put the flowers on the grave, and the stone is cold under his fingers, too. The flowers fall flatly on the surface – he's been holding them too long in a sweaty hand.

He stays there for a while, sitting in front of the grave, saying nothing. Some people talk to their deads – he hasn't managed that yet. Talking would mean getting no answer, and getting no answer would mean that she's gone for good. It's not like he doesn't know that, not like he's been repeating it to himself – and to his father – for a month now. Talking would make it real, and he can't deal with that right now.

So he doesn't talk. He just stares at the tombstone for God knows how long. He reads, over and over, the same words – _Ellinor Karina Wellick, 18 th  of September 1955-18  th  of September 1995, your memory will live in our hearts _. It's a shame that she got such a mundane, corny epitaph under a date she had so chosen carefully. She died on that, day, on the day she was born. It was on purpose, so when people would see her tombstone, they would know it wasn't a coincidence – they would know she was gone because she had chosen to.

She had called the cops, just before hanging herself. She had told them : « Good morning – I'm calling because I'm about to kill myself and I want you to find my body ». The police had arrived at the address she'd given – an old abandonned house on a cliff where some kids would play, sometimes – and they did find her body, handing from the roof.

They didn't tell Tyrell that, of course. He had heard it at the funeral, from Carl's mother – Carl's mother whose necklace he stole, two years ago, because he wanted to make his mom happy, Carl's mother who Tyrell's mom had called a hypocritical, pretentious, jealous bitch. « She never could do anything without putting on a show, this woman, » Carl's mom had muttered to her husband after explaining him what happened, trying to be as quiet as possible, but Tyrell had heard.

It was so like his mom – going on her fortieth birthday and letting everyone know it. She liked romantic novels and poetry. Of course she'd put on a show.

In her note, she had written, in english : _Tyrell, my boy, I'm so sorry I'm leaving you this early. I hope that one day, you can find it in you to forgive me. I know that when the time comes – and I hope that it will come in a long, long time for you – we will be together again._

And when his time comes, Tyrell would put on a show too. To Hell Carl's mother, she can think all that she wants but she doesn't know shit – there's no best way to die than being loud about it. When his time comes, he will go like a legend, with glory and applause.

 _I hope that one day, you can find it in you to forgive me_.

If he could talk, he would say : «  _I've already forgiven you_ ». He would say : «  _There's nothing to forgive, I understand_ ». He would say : «  _I'm sorry that I couldn't become rich sooner – we would have gone back to Göteborg together_ ».

He says nothing.

When he's back home, he's freezing. He goes in his room without having dinner. His father doesn't sees him.

 _I know that when the time comes, we will be together again_.

Then, and only then, he cries.

 

_**October 1998 – Washington Township, New Jersey, USA** _

 

Elliot is twelve, and he's never gone trick or treating before. He watched over Darlene, last year, because she really wanted to go, since kids in her class wouldn't stop talking about it, but that doesn't really count. He would watch from afar, not talking to anyone, nevermind asking for candy, holding a baseball bat that their mother had given him. _In case it turns to shit,_ she had said, which obviously meant _in case a crazy old lady or someone even worse decides to kidnap your sister again_. That didn't stop her from leaving her eleven years old son and her six years old daughter go out alone on the scariest night of the year – _I'm busy_ , she had said, which obviously meant _I can't bring myself to care_.

« What do you mean, you've never done it ? » Angela's dad asks. It looks like it's the most unbelievable thing he's ever heard. « What were you doing on Halloween night all those years, then, huh ? »

 _Staying in my room, reading stories about witches to my sister, but not too loud, because we always have to be quiet if we want to stay safe, and nothing ever guarantees we are anyway_. « Nothing, » Elliot says.

« Well, » Angela's dad says. « The bright side is that you get to do it for the first time. Isn't that cool ? » He's overjoyed, almost jumping on his feet. He turns at Angela, who's putting her things down in the hall behind him. « Remember the first time you went, Angie ? » Then he turns at Elliot and Darlene again. « She was six. She was so glad, then – it's a unique experience. » Elliot wants to tell him that he's twelve and not six, but Donald is way too happy for him to ruin this.

« Dad, _please_ , » Angela whines, annoyance showing in her voice. « Just leave them alone. »

« No, no, this is important, » her dad protests. « You weren't gonna go alone anyway, right ? »

« I was going to go with Jennifer and Monica, » Angela says.

« Don't you want your other friends to come with you too ? » Without looking at them, Donald points at Elliot and Darlene.

Angela frowns. « It's not that ! It's just – It's not that I don't want to, it's that they don't. I mean – of course I would be okay with you guys coming, but – » She cuts it here, but Elliot knows what's supposed to come next, knows that she knows him _– but I know you don't want to come anyway, so run while you still can_.

« There's – really no need to, Donald, » Elliot says, as politely as he manages. « We were just dropping Angela home. »

But before he can turn around and leave, Darlene steps inside the house.

The traitor.

Angela's father takes that as a yes, then, because he starts looking around for costumes for them both, and Elliot can't escape anymore. He sends Darlene murderous looks, but she deliberately ignores them and just smiles – the little shit. Angela eventually stops complaining, because she can't do anything to stop that situation anyway, and because she is happy Elliot and Darlene are here – she just doesn't want it to be awful for Elliot. And thinking back about it – it isn't _that_ awful, and it's still better than being in the same house as his mother.

Donald doesn't find anything that could suit them – they end up with makeshift ghost costumes made out of old bedsheets. Angela's had her costume planned for the whole month – she might sigh at what her dad is saying, but he's right, Halloween really is a big deal to her. This year, she's a witch, wearing a black dress with a black pointy hat and black thick thigh so she isn't cold – she's even got a broom with a cat plushie taped on it and bat shaped earrings to complete the outfit.

After Elliot has insisted to call his mother to ask her if Darlene and him could go – which goes surprisingly well, coming from her, since she just tells them to stay at Angela's overnight because she wants to go to bed early – and Angela's friends have arrived, they finally go. Elliot and Darlene walk behind, leaving the three girls together – Angela doesn't point it out, Angela knows. Her friends – Jessica, the fairy, and Monica, the vampire, or maybe it's the other way around – keep talking about Elliot, thinking that he can't hear them. They prattle and gush, ask Angela if Elliot and her are _lovebirds_ , and when Angela says that no, they aren't, they insist. They make bets to know what Elliot looks like under this makeshift ghost costume. Angela changes subject, talks about something else, but it comes back to that, always.

As if Angela would like to be with someone like him.

When they ring at doors, Elliot stays behind, watching from afar as the girls collect candies. And when Darlene comes back with a new handful of sweets in the pumpkin shaped bucket Angela's dad gave her, she takes half of what she just got and puts it in Elliot's bucket. And Elliot says that no, that's fine, she can keep it, he doesn't want them, but she doesnt listen, and even if her face is covered by a white sheet, Elliot can tell that she's smiling.

Later in the night, when they've gone through several streets, Angela slows down to get to Darlene and Elliot's level – they're still behind. Jennifer and Monica whistle, and Angela tells them to shut up.

« Wanna go home and watch a scary movie? » Angela says.

Elliot stares at her as they're walking, raising his eyebrows. He only speaks when it comes back to him that ah, yes, remember, she can't see that. « Do – do _you_ want to? »

Angela sighs. She always does that when he answers a question with another question waiting for her approval before actually saying what he thinks. « Yes, » she says. « I'm kind of sick of being harrassed about you supposedly being my boyfriend just because you're a boy and I'm a girl. » So she was aware he could hear, too. « And I – » Angela pauses. « I just want to go home, really. » She turns towards Darlene, at her right. « Do you mind? » she asks him. « I'm sorry, I'm being selfish. We can trick and treat some more before we go, if you want. »

But Darlene shrugs. « It's alright, » she says. « We've already rang at enough houses. And I'm getting bored anyway. »

Angela smiles, and then, they go home. She briefly warns her friends that they're leaving, waving in the distance, not even bothering to get back to their level. They don't discuss it, probably thinking that the reason is because Angela and Elliot want to have a romantic moment.

When they're back at the Moss house, there's no one downstairs. Donald is already at bed, despite the night still being young – Angela says that he always goes to bed this early, these days, which stands for _he's been going to bed this early for four years, since my mother died_ , but she doesn't say that. It's a bit cruel maybe, but Elliot wishes his mother would do that, too – early, for her, means midnight, and there's plenty of time for Darlene and him to get scared each time they hear a footstep in the house until then. It's a bit cruel, because the reason Donald goes to sleep at nine is because he's too tired of being sad. Elliot is, too – he can't sleep it off, wishes he could, too. He wishes he could sleep for ten years, or twenty, or twenty, and wake up in a brighter future.

That night, they can't sleep – neither of them. Angela says it's because it's spooky night – they're not supposed to. Elliot just nods.

When the movie they stuck to – _The Gremelins –_ is over, it's eleven, and they're still not tired. Angela zaps on a few channels – most of them airing quiz shows and ads.

They eventually stop when they stumble upon a cheap looking movie that's already started. They're probably just a few minutes, even seconds in – this looks like a beginning. Elliot has seen enough horror movies to know – a young rich looking boy and his young rich looking girl waiting alone for a party to begin in the middle of nowhere can only mean they're going to get killed soon. Enters the faceless murderer – they steals the mask rich looking boy was previously wearing, examines the rich looking girl from afar.

When the rich looking boy is out of sight, the masked killer appears in front of the rich looking girl's eyes. They're holding a makeshift axe that doesn't even look like one. They hits her. Blood splatters. The title appears.

_The Careful Massacre of the Bourgeoisie._

« What does that even mean? » Darlene asks.

She's got her eyes locked to the TV. Angela and Elliot too.

They don't answer.

 

_**June 2000 – Orust, Västra Götalands Iän, Sweden** _

 

On the last day of school, Tyrell sucks Frans Eriksson's dick behind a tree. Frans lets out little whimpers as he buries his fingers in Tyrell's hair – hesitant at first, then his grip stronger when Tyrell puts his own hand over his, pushing it, encourageing it. He closes his lips around the tip, then takes it all in. It's sloppy, saliva is dripping from his chin, but it makes it better. He makes it good, Tyrell, does his best. It's not the first time that this happens – it's the fourth, actually – but it's the best, from Tyrell's side – maybe it's because he's drunk, or because he smoked weed, or maybe it's because it's the last day of school and he's full of wonder and want and fire.

He swallows it all when Frans comes. He doesn't touch himself – later, maybe, now is not the moment. He gets up, wipes the excess at the corner of his mouth. Frans is still panting against the warm wood. Noise is coming from behind him, from the cabin. Tyrell can see their friends through the window – Henrik laughing, Sara and Agda dancing, Katja and Carl kissing.

It was Carl's idea – taking a cabin for the last day of school. The last day, the last night, the last thing holding them to a life they never wanted. Or that Tyrell's never wanted, anyway – Frans wants to find a job in Rönnang right after the holidays, at least for one year, to figure out what he's going to do. Katja is going to leave Rönnang for a barely bigger town that has an university, and wants to come back every week-end to see her parents. Henrik is probably going to work with his father.

And Tyrell can't understand – can't concieve, how they manage to not want more, because that's all he is. Want, want, _want_ –

When Frans is back to himself, he kisses Tyrell. It's shy as it always is, as if the secret that they've been keeping from the others also stands between the two of us, as if he shouldn't tell or show Tyrell anything, either.

« I just had your cock in my mouth, » Tyrell says. « There's no point in being all reserved now. So don't. »

Something lights in Frans's eyes, and then he kisses him again, this time long and deep, trying to be as fearless as he can. It doesn't work that well, because Tyrell knows him, knows that he _is_ scared, but he doesn't care – this is how he wants it.

« Come on, » he says when he breaks the kiss. « Let's get away from here. »

Frans looks at him, then gives a look towards the cabin. « The others are gonna worry, » he says. His voice is hoarse.

« The others are _wasted_ , » Tyrell says. « They haven't even noticed we left. » He turns around and starts walking between the trees. « Come on, » he says. «We'll be back soon. » Which may be true for today, but is a blatant lie when it comes to the rest.

Once he leaves his father's house, he is never, ever coming back.

They walk for a while. Between trees, between bushes, then surrounded by grass and rocks and the lights of the cabins that are occupied. Frans doesn't speak much, because it's Frans, so Tyrell fills the void with things he can think about. He tells Frans that he's started learning french, that he's leaving for Götenborg next week, that he's so, so glad that there's still his mom's side of the family there.

He's so glad his mother keeps saving him from the nothing around and inside him even four years after she passed. He doesn't tell Frans that.

He doesn't tell Frans much more, when they stop walking. They're sitting on the top of a big rock, drinking from the beer cans they had taken with them when they left the cabin. From there, they can see the rest of Orust, and even some other Islands, far away. They can't see Götenborg, but when Tyrell lifts his head up to take a sip of beer, he sees the stars, and it's even better.

« One day, » he says then, « I'm going to rule the world. »

He's still looking at the sky, but he can feel Frans' big eyes on him. « You really scare me, sometimes, you know ? » Frans says.

And Tyrell laughs. « Good, » he says.

Good.

 

_**April 2004 – Washington Township, New Jersey, USA** _

 

Elliot hasn't seen Angela in over two months when he gets a text from her – they've been throwing hi's at each other in the highschool halls, or smiles when they would catch a glance at the other in the bus, but real talking, they haven't done in a while. The text says: _wanna hang out? been a while_.

The day after, Elliot sits alone in the coffeeshop near the highschool for thirty-four minutes before Angela comes in. When does, she apologizes – something about her friend Mary needing to tell something to her. She tells Elliot she hopes he hasn't been waiting for too long. He lies.

They both take hot chocolate. Angela says it's on her. Elliot tries to argue, but it's not a fight he's going to win.

« How have you been? » she asks him when they sit.

« Fine, » Elliot says. « You? »

« Good, » she says. She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, but it immediately falls off – it's shorter than the last time he's seen her.

« Your hair looks nice, » Elliot says.

Angela raises her eyebrows. « Really? » she says. « I hate it. »

« Why? » Elliot asks.

« It's too short, » Angela says.

Silence stands between them as Angela is blowing on her drink to make it colder. She burns herlips when she dips in – she puts the gobelet down, after that.

« Is there anything you'd like to tell me? » Elliot asks to fill the void.

Angela riases her eyebrows again. « What? » She has started putting on more make-up, and her eyes look even more huge. « No, I just wanted to – spend time together. Know what you've been up to, and all. It's just been a while. »

« Oh, » Elliot says.

Angela asks what he's been up to, again.

What has he been up to? School, mostly. Walking Darlene to her ballet class. Teaching her how to code. Taking her to the dog park.

« Nothing special, » Elliot says. « You know – school, homework. Nothing particular. » He doesn't mention the rest. He doesn't know why. It's probably sad to admit that his two only friends are her, who he doesn't see for months, and his twelve years old sister, although Angela knows that. It may not make things better not to mention anything or anyone, but he doesn't anyway. « What's up with you? »

Angela shrugs. She's still fidgeting with her hair. « Same, I guess, » she says. « I have a boyfriend, » she adds.

This is no good. The last two weren't exactly rich-minded people – Elliot had wanted to punch both of them since the first time he had seen them, and one of them was eighteen when Angela was thirteen. « Oh, » Elliot says. He doens't ask questions, because what would come out is _is this one a douchebag, too?_

« You know him, » Angela says. « James Reinhart. He's in your class. »

Elliot hates James Reinhart. « Oh, » he says. « Cool, » he says. « I'm happy for you. » At least, James Reinhart is only two years older than Angela. He's the same age than him, and Elliot can't blame him for liking her – he does like her, too.

« Yeah, he's nice, » Angela says. « We met at a party. I was there because Ellie was there, because her big sister was there. It's all kind of a coincidence, to be honest, I don't know if we would have talked otherwise. Since he's – older and stuff. It's not like you and me – we've known each other since we were kids. »

Maybe that's the reason why Angela will never look at Elliot the way she looks at boys like James Reinhart – maybe it's because they've known each other since they were kids. Or maybe it's just because Angela is Angela, and Elliot is Elliot, and he doesn't even know if he could hold his hand or kiss her without breaking something.

« Speaking of Ellie's sister, and of parties, » Angela says. « Rumour has it that she's throwing one at their house to celebrate end of finals. And when I say rumour has it, I mean that Ellie told me that it was being planned, so it's probably gonna happen. » She pauses there. « You should come. »

Elliot looks away. Angela keeps trying – it's nice of her, but useless, and he doesn't know where to put himself. « I don't know, » he says.

« She's in your class, too, » Angela says. « Ellie's sister. You two know each other, right? »

Elliot does, and actually, Judith Rosenberg is one of the few people in his class that he actually likes. Not that he actually knows her – they barely even talk, but she's got a soft face and a kind smile, and for all he knows, she seems really, genuinely nice. Which is no good news, because that means she is going to invite him, and he is going to have to refuse. It would have been easier if it was Lydia Clark throwing the party – she can't stand Elliot, wouldn't even have thought about inviting him, and he wouldn't have to confront that situation.

« Not very well, » Elliot answers. « We don't talk much. »

Angela sighs. « It will be nice, » she says. « I'm sure you'd like it much more than you think. » That's bullshit and she knows it, but Elliot doesn't have it in him to tell her that. « Think about it, ok? »

They leave the coffee place about an hour later, because Angela has a movie date with James Reinhart and Elliot has to pick Darlene up from her ballet class. He watches Darlene walk away until she reaches the corner on the street and disappears, her now shorter blonde hair moving in waves on her shoulders and the scent of the perfume she uses still floating in the air Elliot breathes.

Darlene is already outside when he gets there. She's standing on the sidewalk – behind her, leaning against the wall, her teacher is smoking. She's tall, impressive in an almost frightening way, and Elliot wonders sometimes if it's really safe to leave Darlene to her, but she never complained. When his eyes get back at Darlene, she's frowing.

« You're late, » she says.

« Sorry, » Elliot says. « I missed my bus. Had to wait for the next one. » He offers his hand. « Want me to carry your bag? »

She shoves it in his chest and starts walking before him.

« Hey, » Elliot says, a little bit louder, as he walks faster to get to her level. « It was only ten minutes, » he says. Darlene really doesn't like to wait. « And I said I was sorry, ok? »

Darlene doesn't stop, doesn't look at him, but she says: « Ok. » Her tone is flat, neutral, not angry or happy – she's had a shitty day and wants someone to vent on.

« Want to talk about it? » Elliot says.

Darlene looks at him with her big, big eyes asking _how do you know?_ as if she wouldn't know, by now, that she doesn't need to tell him anything for him to understand. Elliot's not good with people, can't understand one's feelings just by looking at them, but it's Darlene, and when it's her, he knows.

Eventually, she shrugs. « Some girls at the dance lesson whispering in my back, » Darlene says. « They don't say anything to my face, but I can tell it's about me, » she says. Elliot knows about that. He can't tell her it's in her head, can't tell her that there's no reason for people to be mean with her, but he knows that people don't need reasons to be mean, and that it's probably not in her head.

He can't tell her that, but he can't tell that she's right about people hating her, either, because a twelve years old shouldn't have to hear that from her big brother.

« You want to go to the dog park? » He says instead.

Darlene gives him a little smile. « Yeah, » she says. « That would be nice, » she says.

He knows her. He can't say the same for the rest of the world, but he knows her, and right now, that's all that matters.

 

_**February 2005 – Stockholm, Sweden** _

 

« They're gonna _love_ you, » Hilda says behind him, looking in his eyes through the mirror. She wraps her arms around his waist, delicate and affectionnate.

Tyrell smiles. « It will be because I'm with you, » he says. He buttons up his vest, then turns around. « And they love you. »

« No, no, » Hilda says. When she kisses him, she doesn't need to tiptoe – her stilettos are doing the job. « They're gonna love _you_ , » she says, « because you're a wonderful – » _kiss_ « brilliant – » _kiss_ « stunning young man, » she finishes, and then kisses him again.

Tyrell puts a hand on her neck, brushes his fingers where her blonde hair starts. It's usually straight, falling like a waterfall on her shoulders and back, but she's got it curled for the occasion. « I've learned from the best, » he says. When he kisses her, it's deeper and longer, and Hilda smiles into it.

One thing that Tyrell has learned since he lives in Götenborg is that it's way more easier to get people into your bed when you live in a big town. It's not like he didn't know that – it was part of the big city dreams, of living in Rönnang and begging to leave it, of dreaming of Götenborg and Stockholm and Paris and New York. Back in Rönnang, there had been Frans, and a girl named Victoria – Frans had been a shameful teenage little secret for two years, and Victoria had been a subject of local gossip for months even though they had only kissed once. In Götenborg, he can do whatever he wants – he can go to bar girls go to, clubs guys go to, he can even stick to his college and the parties that are thrown in the dorms and have as much fun as he wants without trouble.

Another thing that Tyrell has learned since he lives in Götenborg is that there are many, many benefits to sleeping with your teacher.

Hilda is a beautiful woman, with a sharp sense of humour and a gorgeous body that has Tyrell wanting to bend her over a table and take her until she can't think straight anymore. She's sophisticated and tasteful – even when she is not going anywhere special, when she's just giving a class or going out for groceries, she wears suits or dresses or even casual wear that somehow look more classy on her than on any woman she's been with. Nails always done, red lipstick popping, high heels on, she has a successful life and it shows. If she wasn't Tyrell's teacher, he would have liked her anyway – if they had met in a bar, or at the cafeteria, or elsewhere, he would have tried buying her a drink. He would have looked at her straight in the eyes, would have murmured things and brushed her fingers with his – then he would have taken her home, undressed her, fucked her good.

Except Hilda is his teacher, and it's even better. It's better, because after every time they have sex in expensive hotel rooms, she gives him french and german lessons, even though it isn't in his planning. It's better, because having sex with her doesn't mean that she gives him good grades, but she doesn't need to, because he can get them by himself – he passes all his tests with an A, and when they're alone, later, she looks at him and tells him he's _brillant_. It's better because there are a lot of good students this year, but it's him she takes to galas full of successful academics, it's him she introduces as « my most promising student », it's him she takes to expensive hotels in different cities.

It's not meant to be, it's not love, it's not part of destiny, of the Grand Plan that will one day link him to another person, to the one, to a soulmate. But she's good and she's smart and she passes the time, and she knows they're no more than that. They have fun together – when they're done, she goes back to her husband, and he goes back to whoever he's seeing, or not. As simple as that.

Today, the gala is being thrown in Stockholm. Prestigious people are going to be there – people with degrees and prizes, people that can take him somewhere if he pulls the right strings.

And Hilda is going to praise him before them.

Really, there are many benefits to sleeping with your teacher.

When they arrive to the gala, they display their teacher and student relationship only. People know Hilda is married – she even invites him to events her husband is at, too. It keeps it blurry, keeps them a secret – if she only came with Tyrell, it would be suspicious, but when she sometimes has her main man with her too, it can only seem innocent. The guy even _likes_ Tyrell, but that's probably because he doesn't know that Tyrell's dick sometimes happens to be in his wife.

Someone comes to them with a plate, offering them a glass of Champagne. Tyrell empties it slowly as he starts talking to different people – right posture, neat suit, his voice a perfect balance of enthusiasm and calm. He's used to this, now, he's learned.

Later in the night, he gets to the bar to get himself a Martini. He just talked to a doctorant from KTH Royal Institute of Technology who, after twenty minutes of conversation, told him he knew someone who knew someone who could find him an intership for next year. Tyrell knows how these things usually go – people take names and phone numbers and never call back.

« You have to _make_ them call you back, » Hilda once told him. « You have to make yourself look essential. That way, they are going to be the ones begging you to come back, not the opposite. »

So Tyrell makes himself look essential – more than that, he makes himself _be_ essential. He works day and night for that, on his studies as much as on his attitude. He's got Hilda to thank for that – she's the one who guided him.

There's a young girl at the bar. Hair styled in a loose but sophisticated ponytail, a jacket of a cream color on the top of her light blue dress and a glass of white wine in her hand, she's alone. Tyrell doesn't see her face until he reaches the bar, until he sits next to her. There, he can see the features of her profile appearing, bathed in the white lights. Glossy lips, slim nose, long lashes. She kind of looks like Angelina Jolie.

« Hello, » Tyrell says.

When she turns to him, her eyes are blue, blue, blue.

« I apologize if I'm bothering you, » Tyrell says. « It's just that – You intrigue me. I've talked to approximately everyone in this greeting by now, and I haven't seen you once. How come ? »

The girl takes a sip in her drink – her moves are delicate, and when the glass touches her lips, it's almost just a brush, almost nothing. Then, she smiles. «  _Maybe I'm a ghost_ , » the girl says in Danish.

Tyrell spent about a week in Copenhagen with Hilda last year. He insisted on speaking Danish the whole time there, because English was too easy. Still, while he quickly learned to understand most of it, the language being rather close to Swedish, his Danish is a little bit rusty, so he doesn't bother trying. « A rather charming ghost, then, » he says.

The girl seems surprised, but not disconcerted. Her lips form a pout, then a smile again. « Here's a young man with some culture, » she says, in Swedish this time. « Do you have relatives in Denmark ? »

Tyrell shakes his head. In the meantime, the barman comes back with his Martini – Tyrell dips his lips in the drink. « Just went there once or twice, » he says. « I'm afraid I understand Danish more than I'm able to actually speak it. »

«  _Well, that's good enough,_ » the girl says, switching back to Danish.

« So, » Tyrell says. « What are you doing here ? »

«  _Here, at the bar or here, at the gala?_ »

Tyrell watches for all the things he hadn't already noticed about her – her small, elegant heart-shaped earrings, her neatly polished nails, a silver pendant resting on her chest. « Both ? » he tries.

«  _Well,_ » the girl says. «  _You're going to have to wait to find out._ »

« Why ? » Tyrell asks. 

She smiles. «  _You said it,_ » she says. «  _I intrigue you_. _It would be a shame to ruin that, wouldn't it_? »

Tyrell leans on the bar, his elbow resting on the edge. « May I at least ask for your name ? »

The girl looks at him right in the eyes – blue, blue, blue. «  _That, I can do_ , » she says. «  _I'm Joanna._ »

They shake hands. « Tyrell Wellick, » he says.

«  _Wellick_ , » Joanna repeats. «  _What an odd name_. »

His mother's name, Wellick. Odd, sure – ad odd as she was, as unique and peculiar. A more fitting name than Strömberg ever was – a reminder that he's still his mother's boy, but not his father's son.

Tyrell raises his drink. « To odd names, then, » he says. « And promising encounters. »

Their glasses cling.

Three weeks later, Tyrell sees Joanna again at another gala, in Götenborg this time – it happens, luckily, that she's studying in the same university as he does, he just never got to see her because she's in first year and he's in third. This time, Joanna has got her nails painted in red and her dark hair falling over her shoulders. Her fingers curl around her glass, then around Tyrell's hand, and Tyrell gets lost.

When Joanna tells him to sleep with the red-haired woman to steal her earrings from her, he doesn't question it. When he tells her that he would do anything for her, she tells him : « Do that, and I'll believe you ». She tells him : « Meet me at the university cafetaria for lunch tomorrow. With the earrings. Then, I'll believe you. » Tyrell kisses Joanna's hand, gets up, manages to join the conversation the woman is being a part of, and does as he's said.

« I will cherish them with all my heart, » Joanna says the day after. She puts the earrings on and smiles at Tyrell.

 _I will cherish you_ , Tyrell hears, and he nearly cries on the spot.

 

_**June 2008 – New York, USA** _

 

It's one in the morning, and Elliot is high. Darlene is standing in his doorway – she's got a purple prom dress with boots at her feet, which is an odd mix, probably, but it's very Darlene. She's smiling, and her eyes are glowing under a heavy dose of eyeshadow.

« Surprise, motherfucker, » she says. « You mind sharing? »

She takes the joint from between his fingers and sucks on it as she walks in the flat. Elliot notices the backpack on her shoulder.

« What are you doing here? » he says.

Darlene crashes on the couch. « I wanted to celebrate my freedom, » she says. « I had the choice between going to a party full of hypocritical assholes, staying at home with the devil next door or coming to see my dear big brother. The choice was quick, although I made an effort to bear with the hypocritical assholes for quite some time, but then I was too eager to see your ugly face, so I hopped on a train and came over. »

She puts the joint between her lips as she takes her boots off and massages her own feet through her socks. The boots have heels, Elliot notices. It must hurt.

« I could have been sleeping, » Elliot says.

But he's smiling, and Darlene grins twice as much when she sees that. « Sure, dickhead, » she says. « Ain't you happy to see me? »

« I am, » he says, and he is, he is.

He is because Darlene is, because Darlene radiates energy and power and it's so rare to see her like that that he could cry, but then perhaps it's the weed. She's free, he thinks, she's free for the first time ever but then she isn't because nobody is, sure, but she can leave, now, she can have her life and sleep without being afraid she'll get slapped in the face and wake up in a room that doesn't smell like the bruises she got when she was a kid.

« So, what are you gonna do, now? » he says.

Darlene stretches her arms out. « Find a job here, and then a flat. Perhaps find some roomates for a lower rent. »

« You can crash here until you find something, if you want, » Elliot says.

« I damn hope I can, » Darlene barks, but she's laughing. She's been drinking, and the joint is still in her hand. Elliot takes it back, takes a drag. « That's temporary anyway, » Darlene says. « That's just until I find a handsome rich guy to take care of me and keep me in a nice loft. Bonus if it's Brad Pitt, but I can manage someone else, I'm not picky. »

Elliot laughs, too. « What happened to “fuck the system”? »

« Oh, please, » Darlene says. « You and I both know the only way to fuck the system is to take advantage of it, » she says. « It's not like shit's gonna change anytime soon. » She bends over the couch, reaching for her backpack. She gets a bottle of gin out of it.

« How did you get that? » Elliot asks.

« I took the seller in the reserve stockroom, sucked his dick, had the whole thing filmed by a friend and then threatened him to show the video to the police if he didn't give me a bottle for free, » Darlene says.

Elliot looks at her with round eyes. « You didn't. »

« Of course I didn't, dumbass, » Darlene. « My friend's twenty-one. I asked her to buy it for me. » She gets something else out of her bag. « I also got these, » she says. In her hands, there's three DVDs with red stickers from the video store in Washington Township. « I took the shittiest looking ones, » Darlene says. « Thought we might do drinking games – we did that with Melanie the other night – you just basically drink everytime some specific thing happen, like when a word is said or shit. »

« I know what a drinking game is, Darlene, » Elliot says.

« Oh, I never know with you, » Darlene says. « So, you're in? »

Elliot shrugs. « Yeah, let's do that, » he says.

And when Darlene gets up to put the DVD in Elliot's laptop, Elliot closes his eyes and thinks: _I never want this moment to end_. He wants Darlene giggling and tripping on her feet in his appartment whenever she wants to come, he wants to wake up in the morning and feel bliss, to put up the courage to call Angela and have drinks with her instead of always declining her invitations, he wants to bond with the people he works with and feel something else than the urge to puke when they put a hand on his shoulder, he wants to never feel alone again. That can't happen, of course – this is rare, this is unique, this is a liminal space in which he'll never find himself again. This is a tear in his little universe in which he can lay down and rest, but as soon as he falls asleep, the tear will be sewn back together and he will be left with the disgusting reality as his only friend.

« So, which one do you want to watch? »

Elliot opens his eyes. He exhales. Relief: the moment is not gone, yet. The tear is still open.

« As you want, » he says.

Maybe it can last a little while, then.

 

_**January 2012 – New York, USA** _

 

At the age of twenty-nine, Tyrell Wellick becomes the youngest Vice President of Technology in E Corp.

They have a party being thrown for the occasion, of course – E Corp do what they have to do to make their employees feel important. Tyrell is, now – important. He is, for real. He's got his beautiful wife's hand gently curled around his arm, attracting the envious looks of many men in the room, and he's speaking to Terry Colby, whose position he will eventually end up having. He knows that because if he's already made it this far, it's because he knows how to get what he wants, and Joanna knows even better – they're lethal, together, the perfect pair.

Someone else takes Colby's attention, and they're left only the two of us, in a little bubble both part and apart of this made-up world. Tyrell is looking at Joanna, then everywhere, then at the young dark-haired man that congratulated him earlier. He's got eyes like a cat's and a bright, bright smile.

«  _You could go fuck him,_ » Joanna whispers in Danish.

Tyrell freezes. « Excuse me? » He switched to Swedish, too, just to make sure that nobody gets what they're saying.

«  _Oh, come on_ , » Joanna says. «  _We're not exactly a monogamous couple,_  » she says. «  _Why do you act like it's a surprise?_ »

Tyrell stares at her for a second of two before speaking. « It's just – sure, yes, it's just that usually, when we sleep with other people, it's with a purpose. »

Joanna laughs – a quiet and clear laugh. She takes a sip in her glass – french Champagne, probably worth hundreds of dollars. «  _Oh, Tyrell, baby, come on,_ » she says. «  _We sleep with other people for fun, too. There's no wrong with a little bit of fun._ » She kisses him on his temple, then whispers in his ear : «  _So go fuck him_. »

« How do I know he likes men ? » Tyrell asks.

«  _Are you blind ?_ » Joanna says. «  _That boy would have gotten on his knees to please you if it wasn't for the other people around._ »

Tyrell looks at her, then at the young man, then at her again. « What about people, then ? » he asks her. « What if they notice ? I may already have been promoted, I'm not sure cheating on my wife by sleeping with a man would be very beneficial to my reputation. »

Joanna raises a hand. Her touch on his cheek is light like a feather. «  _You don't need me to teach you how to do these things, sweetheart_ , » she says. «  _I'm sure you will do fine_ , » she says. «  _Now go have some fun._ »

And Tyrell does as he's told.

 

_**March 2013 – New York, USA  
** _

  
  
There's a girl sitting in Elliot's couch.

He thought it was Shayla, at first – same kind of long, wavy brown hair, and the same kind of clothing, too. She's wearing a plaid shirt as a jacket over an black sweater and ripped jeans – Shayla could definitely have worn that.

But it's not Shayla, and he should have known anyway, because Shayla doesn't hide in Elliot's appartment anymore since Vera found out that was where she was going when he couldn't find her. _So easy I wonder how I didn't think about it before_ , he had said. _I looked for her everywhere, when she was right in front of my nose. Funny story, bro._

It's not Shayla, and if it's not her, maybe it's one of her friends. Maybe she gave her the spare keys of Elliot's flat because there was an emergency. That, or it's one of Vera's friends, which is a very less pleasant option, but it's less likely – the two or three times Vera invited himself in there, he destroyed the lock and let the door open.

« Hey, dickhead, » the girl says. She doesn't seem hostile, and the insult is more casual than aggressive. « It's been a while. »

It's weird. That's weird. « I'm sorry? » Elliot says.

The girl rolls her eyes. « Oh please, » she says. « You're not gonna do that now, alright? I've been trying to keep in touch, ok, I've been messaging you and trying to calling you while trying to respect your space, I've been trying to talk without harrassing you, and you never answered – and alright, you have your reasons, probably, and I don't care, it's ok, but have the decency to admit it. » She sighs. « I haven't come to yell at you, » she says. « Sorry. I just wanted to make sure you were ok. I got – worried. »

This is not – this girl is crazy. « I don't know what you're talking about, » Elliot says. And then, because she's looking at him with round eyes: « I don't know you. »

She looks at him in the eyes for too long. He turns his gaze away when he can't bear it anymore. « Please don't do that with me, » she says. Her voice is angry.

« I don't know you, » Elliot says, staring at the wall. « Get out of my appartment. »

« I can't – » She looks away, too. He can see it from the corner of his eye. « Ok, » she says. « I'm leaving, I can't – I can't even tell if you're being serious or not. Not that you've ever been capable of something as simple as a joke. Even if this one is a very fucking bad one. » She looks at him again, then. « Fuck you, » she says. « I can't do this – call me when you're done acting like a fucking maniac. » She gets past him, opens the door. « And look up your fucking phone. »

When she's gone, Elliot stands still in the middle of his living room. He doesn't know how long he stays like that. Outside, music is playing and cars are honking and people are talking, but he isn't moving.

When he does move, he takes his phone out of his pocket and clicks on the _texts_ icon. He's got a bunch he hasn't read from a bunch of different people. There's one name he doesn't recognize, until he does.

It all comes back very fast, then.

He clicks on _Darlene_.

 _Please answer_ , he reads. _You're scaring the shit out of me_ , he reads. And then, when he scrolls up, more. _I dont know if youre dead or if you've decided to be a fucking dick for no reason but if youre not dead please answer_. Up. _You could have told me if you changed your number, asshole_. Up. _It's been four months. Are you ok?_ Up. _Elliot. Init1._ Up. _Elliot?_ Up, up, up.

How has he not read these? Has his brain decided to ignore every message coming from her, making him swipe them away and forget about them as soon as it was done? How could he forget? How could he forget Darlene?

Later, when he sits down, he types: _I'm sorry I havent answered I dont know what happened I forgot I dont know what happened im scared I dont know im sorry please come back I had forgotten but now I remember and –_

He stops writing. He deletes it.

He doesn't know when he starts to cry.

 

_**February 2015 – New York, USA** _

 

« Oh, hi, » Tyrell says. He might have been staring, he realizes. He holds his hand out. « Tyrell Wellick, » he says. « Senior vice-president of technology. »

Elliot takes his hand. « Elliot, » he says. « Just a tech. »

« Don't be so humble, » Tyrell says, smiling. « You know, I started out exactly where you are, » he says, « and to be honest, my heart is still there. » Hands in pockets. Nonchalent grin. Relaxed face. Elliot turns around, going back to his work. _Shit_. « So I see you're running Gnome, » he says, filling the void. Cross arms. Raise eyebrows. Draw attention. « You know I'm actually on KDE myself. I know this desktop environnement is supposed to be better but – you know what they say. Old habits, they die hard. »

Elliot is looking at him again. He doesn't know what the man is trying to do there, if he's just trying to be friendly or showing off. His smile, fake or not, is warm. He doesn't know what to think about that.

_An executive running Linux with –_

« Yeah, I know what you're thinking, » Tyrell says. « I'm an executive. I mean why am I even running Linux? » Hands in pockets. Confident smile. Look good, good good. « Again, old habits, » he says. « It's gonna be fun working with you, » he says.

There's a short, short moment when neither of them says nothing, looking into each others eyes for a few seconds. At that moment, Elliot thinks: what's the matter with this guy?

Tyrell thinks: maybe there's something.

Elliot thinks: I don't get him. I don't like it.

Tyrell thinks: there must be something.

And maybe there is.

Maybe there is.

 

**Author's Note:**

> [tumblr](http://abelmrna.tumblr.com/) / [twitter](https://twitter.com/abelmrna)


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